A Social Worker in Hell
Social Work Today
By Roberta Gastineau, MSW, CISW
Vol. 4 No. 3 p. 21

The trainers droned on with nothing to break the monotony except their nasty little charts with boring graphs and statistics. They must have been in love with the sound of their own voices, impervious to their largely comatose audience.

Summer in Phoenix, AZ, is not a good time to plan any event. But, when the air conditioning goes out, it is time to send folks home. The air conditioning did shut down, but since we only had two hours until completion, administrators decided to set up fans and proceed. The trainers were supposed to be leaving town that night and, not being fools, did not want to return to Phoenix in August to complete the training.

Every atom in my body was screaming for freedom. It was hot and the training had not improved with the loss of the air conditioning. Suspicious eyes darted around the room checking to see that no one fell asleep or left. This is it, I thought to myself: “I’ve died and gone to hell.” Fighting to keep my eyes open, I began to write.

When the modern thinker considers hell, it is generally believed that hell is not relevant to the 21st century or that hell no longer exists, if in fact it ever did. Researchers have now proven that hell does exist and, keeping up with the times, it has now been streamlined to punish specific groups in ways that are appropriate to their individual misdeeds. It is no longer in vogue to lump all evil-doers into one large, hot place. Thus, the current trend is to send people to their own particular hell. Gain insight and take heed.

Guilty As Charged
The verdict has been handed down with no appeal. Guilty as charged. Past misdeeds now rise up to haunt you: the phone calls never returned, late court reports, skimpy progress notes. The generic replies you made to desperate pleas for help. Cutting afternoon home visits short and going to the gym. The smart remarks about “those kinds of people.” Your bad judgment calls and lack of sensitivity all rise up to point damning fingers. Realization dawns; agency timelines can’t be ignored without eternal repercussions. Everything has caught up with you. Hanging your head in shame, you are condemned to be … a social worker in hell.

The sterile hallway in front of you seems endless. You have been issued a regulation three-piece suit complete with heels and panty hose. A briefcase sets off the ensemble. If this is hell, it doesn’t seem all that bad. You have been ordered to walk the hallway to find the copier and make copies of the contents of the briefcase. It is time to find the copier. Which door to choose? There is no one in the hall to ask and, worst of all, no one at the drinking fountain to stop and gossip with. You attempt to take a sip of water from the fountain. Copier ink squirts out of the fountain and stains your nice new suit. Still thirsty, you begin your long walk.

Your heart begins to pound as you remember 2,000 typewritten reports are due in 20 minutes. You are going to need some help with this. You open the door that is marked “Secretary.” A note on the desk states “out sick.” The plant on the desk tries to grab your ankle and drag you under the desk as you flee back into the hall.

Ah, blessed respite. Your name is on the next door. You slip inside and see 10 Day Minders bulging with double-booked appointments. The desk is buried under stacks of incomplete intakes and unfinished progress notes. Your mileage reimbursement requests overflow onto the floor, all stamped with the word “denied.” The phone is ringing off the hook as case files appear to multiply before your eyes. Your pager blares incessantly. The pages have been ripped out of the paperback novel you had hidden in your desk. The snacks in the drawer are stale, and someone has stolen your change for the soda machine. Your only option is to return to the hallway.

Back down the hall, a 12-foot supervisor jumps out and screams in your face, “Vacation! You’ll get no vacation, you slacker!” The sweat breaks out on your forehead as you back away. Your panty hose are starting to bind, the three-piece suit has shrunk a size, and you have rubbed a blister on your heel. Dabbing frantically at the ink stain on the front of your blouse, you continue down the endless hallway.

Opening door after door, hideous sights torture you: hysterical parents, moaning clients, crying children, and threatening lawyers, all pointing accusing fingers and making impossible requests. The briefcase that originally weighed a light 15 pounds now weighs a preposterous 225 pounds. Your arm has grown numb carrying this burden. Your panty hose are cutting off the circulation in your legs and have melded to your inner thighs. The blister on your heel has deteriorated to the point that surely your shoe must be demon-possessed. Still, the hallway goes on and on with no sign of a copier.

No Salvation In Sight
Pushing open another door, a welcome sight greets your eyes. A conference of social workers—this could be a safe place to rest! A conference at a hotel is every social worker’s recreation on company time. It is a chance to kick back, relax, eat a free lunch, and sneak out early. Slipping into a spot at the back of the room, you prepare to enjoy yourself. The speaker rises and begins to mumble and drone. The PowerPoint presentation is blocked by a large fellow with a hygiene problem. The hard chair cuts into your shoulders. The space under the table is shrinking, and there is no place to put your legs. The water pitcher is empty, and there is no free pad of paper for doodling. The air conditioning switches off. Sweltering, your eyes begin to burn. Fiendish faces stare at you, waiting to jab you if you doze off. Moving to slip out and go sit by the hotel pool, you realize that a heavy chain is clamped on everyone’s ankle. Your eyes roll out of your head; the room is filled with your screams.

Coming to your senses in the hallway, you continue the eternal search for a working copier. Frustration mounts as realization hits. A bathroom is needed or you will be swimming this hallway. The next door says “Women.” The door is locked and you don’t have a key. Hysteria threatens to close off your breathing.

A push on the next door shows you an empty courtroom. At last—a quiet place to rest and catch your breath. Except for one little chair in the center of the room, it seems to only have benches for 12 judges to sit. Sitting brings instant trouble; in the blink of an eye, all the benches are filled. Huge judges with horns and bad breath are leering down at you and shouting, “What is the basis of your opinion?” “What services did you offer?” “Where is the documentation for that last remark?” “Little lady, you are in contempt!” A thousand little attorneys with pitchforks jump out of the woodwork. Laughing hysterically, they begin to spin your chair around and around. Blood pressure bursting, the floor opens up and you are back in the hall.

The endless hallway continues mile after sterile mile. Entering an open door, you find the file room. The file room is a great place to hide out and read a chapter from the novel in the bottom of your briefcase. Your briefcase won’t open. Files are stacked precariously to infinity with no names on them. Reaching for a file, they begin to fall, and you narrowly miss being crushed. The only alternative is the hallway.

Farther down the hall, a door reads “Authorized Personnel Only.” Maybe the copier is in here? Entering the room, you find a huge computer. Not a favorite part of your job; still, a chance to sit down looks good. You punch in your password and begin to enter progress notes. Working until your fingers ache, you go to hit the save button. There is no save button; all your work has dropped off into nothingness. In exasperation, you attempt to sign off, and the screen flashes red: “Unauthorized Entry Security Alert.” Out of nowhere, an evil security person materializes, devilish eyes gloating, “Security violation #666-666—you are in for it now.” Dodging between cloven hooves, you are back in the hallway.

The hallway seems to be coming to an end. The last door has been reached. Swinging it open reveals a dazzling copier in perfect working order. Stepping up to the copier, hope swells in your heart. Accomplishment may be a reality. The copier hums in agreement. Reaching into the briefcase with numb fingers, realization dawns: You have left the documents to be copied on your desk. You have to walk the hallway again and again. This is really hell. The world goes dark.

Not Just A Simple Nightmare
Your own whimpering wakes you. Eyes blinking, you come to your senses. People are milling around getting ready to leave. You were dreaming—that’s all it was, just a silly little dream. Relief washes over you: “There’s no place like your agency, there’s no place like your agency.” You aren’t in hell. You fell asleep again during your morning meeting.

What about the dream? Is that all it was? Was it just a dream? What waits on the other side for the social worker with no soul? Fresh from school, you were determined to remain true to the ethics you were taught. As time wore on, you began to compromise your principles. It was hard at first; now it has become easy. Calloused by what you tell other people is a stressful job, you ignore the injustices you once swore you would fight. You are comfortable with the status quo and just getting a paycheck.

Maybe the dream was more than just a dream. Perhaps it was a warning to take heed before it is too late. Brush off that dusty copy of the National Association of Social Workers Code of Ethics, read it again, and live up to those standards. Try again to use that dual perspective and start putting your knowledge of cultural diversity to good use. Strive once again to be the empathetic individual you are capable of being. It is not easy being a social worker, but it is harder to be a person asking for help. Be the professional you were taught to be. A lot may depend on you. It might be later than you think.

— Roberta Gastineau, MSW, CISW, currently serves on The Arizona Board of Behavioral Health and is a social worker in the South Phoenix neighborhood, where she grew up. Most evenings she can be found teaching a new generation of social workers at the local university. She is trying to avoid the eternal walk down that “damned hallway.”